


In Sunlight

by Celia_and



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: ...maybe, Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Seduction, Cottagecore, Domestic Fluff, Dry Humping, Eating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Independent cottage owner Rey, Is this fic really just me processing residual religious hangups surrounding sex?, Marriage Proposal, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Public Masturbation, Religious Guilt, Religious attitudes toward premarital sex as a sin, Rugged quiet woodcutter Ben, Set in Indeterminate Time Period, Smut, Temptation, This is mostly just pastoral porn, Virgin Ben Solo, sexually experienced Rey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28279902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celia_and/pseuds/Celia_and
Summary: “Hmm, it’s a pity,” she tsks.“What is?”“If I asked you to come sit against that tree and open your trousers so I could take my pleasure on you, you would say no.”He is looking directly at her now, with eyes that know what lies under her dress. When he speaks, his voice is faraway and dazed. “If there’s anything worth damnation, it would be you.”----------Independent cottage owner Rey wants to take a lover, and the tall, quiet woodsman she meets one day in the fields would be perfect. If only he would forget little things like “sin.”
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 79
Kudos: 424





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is 50% an excuse for me to write cottagecore porn, 50% a way for me to process restrictive religious attitudes toward sex. If you know me from my modern AUs, this is...not that. I hope you enjoy. 💛

On the day that she first saw him, she was lying in the meadow. Her feet were bare and her skirt was grass-stained and she lay on her back and watched the clouds. It’s important to watch the clouds because if you don’t watch them now and you want to look at them later, you won’t be able to. You’ll be able to look at different ones, certainly, but not these.

The blackberries were ripe, and she’d taken a pocketful. She’d eaten them on her walk, popped into her mouth one by one. She’d run the last part of the way because she wanted to. The spring was still new, and her blood was hot.

She’d finally flung herself down in the meadow and set to watching the clouds. She’s very good at it. Watching. She was doing it diligently until the lull of the breeze in the meadow reminded her how agreeable it is _not_ to watch, sometimes. To close one’s eyes and listen. And the warmth of the sun and the distant cowbells finally prompted the memory that one might even sleep, and that too is pleasant. So she did.

When the dog’s bark ended her nap, she stretched luxuriously and sat up, not bothering to pick the grass from her hair or straighten her skirt. The setter came bounding over to her despite the distant call of restraint, and made a thorough job of snuffling all around her person for any prey she might be hiding. Evidently satisfied that there was no flesh but hers on the meadow, the dog took to greeting her enthusiastically, mussing her skirts further with joyful yipping circles in front of her as she sat legs askew. She laughed and petted the animal, and it licked her face and gave every indication of the utmost friendship, so by the time its owner finally reached them, she felt that their relationship had progressed to an extent disproportionate to the length of their acquaintance.

She turned away from the engrossing task of scratching the setter’s ears to look at the man. He wore the plain homespun of a woodsman, and his frame spoke of strength and labor. His height made her crane her neck up into the afternoon sun, and she scrunched up her eyes and nose to squint at his face.

He advanced one more step so that his head shaded her eyes from the sun. Whether her comfort was the intent or merely the effect of that last step she didn’t know. But his face surprised her. It wasn’t rough, nor coarse. It spoke of learning, perhaps, or a rare soul.

The dog returned excitedly to his heel, liberating her skirts, and she laughed as its paws scrambled over her bare calf.

“Sit with me,” she demanded impetuously, shading her eyes with her hand so he could move out of the line between her and the sun.

He scrubbed his hands on his trousers, taken aback. “Why?”

She smiled. “The clouds won’t watch themselves.”

He cleared his throat uncertainly. “We’re not acquainted.”

She toyed with the hem of her dress. His eyes followed. “Sit with me, and we will become acquainted.”

When he sat, she was sure it was against his better judgment. But he sat nonetheless, and she grinned and flung herself back into the grass to resume the watching.

He refused to recline but sat stiffly, watching her more than the clouds. She glanced up at him. “Well, what is necessary for us to become acquainted?”

“We should exchange names, at least.”

“My name is Rey.” She slid her hands behind her head and shifted, burrowing into the sweet new grass and closing her eyes.

His response sounded far-off when it finally came. “My name is Benjamin.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Now we are acquainted.”

She lay and smiled and lazily soaked up sun. When it went behind a cloud and she opened her eyes, he was still sitting rigidly. She glanced up at him and his eyes hastened away from her bare shins.

Yes, she decided, he would do nicely.

After all, the spring was still new, and her blood was hot.

* * *

Her cottage stood some five miles from the village. Close enough for the necessities of life beyond what her acreage yielded and far enough that the villagers left her alone, mostly. She traded her eggs and jams for dresses and books. With the shepherds and beekeepers and woodsmen and farmers she had a looser arrangement. It was not a trade so much as a recognition that they all made things the others needed. No one could live on corn or firewood alone. So they shared what the earth and their hands yielded and no one went without unless they all did.

They were not like the villagers. They knew the value of the solitude which is hardly solitude with the trees and the sun and the stream and the earth to share it. She was happy with others and happier alone. She sang as she fed the chickens.

She took lovers when she pleased.

Her bed was her own, and her home and her brood. She had no desire for a husband, but she nevertheless had desire. The villagers and their church thought it was wrong. She did not know whether they did not feel desire or whether they refused to indulge it, but her way was better by far. How were those sweaty pursuits that gave such pleasure so different from running, or swimming? The baker’s son agreed with her for a while, until he decided to marry. He’d brought her rosemary loaves and she’d lifted her skirts and bent over against a tree and gasped her joy when he’d filled her up.

She hadn’t taken the bread, though. It wasn’t a transaction.

There was a shepherd next. She would unbutton her dress to her navel and tie her skirt around her waist and bounce atop him where he lay on the warm grass. The sheep paid no mind to their exertions. She gloried in the sun on her neck and the ache in her legs and the heady slide of the cock inside her. He would last a long time, that shepherd. And he would put his mouth on her after he spent on the hot earth with a grunt. Sometimes they would make a whole afternoon of it, and she would wobble home loose-limbed and smiling.

This woodsman wouldn’t put his mouth between her thighs, she’s almost certain. He wouldn’t even know how to find her hole, more than likely.

She doesn’t mind at all. She’s an excellent teacher.

* * *

“Benjamin,” she murmurs idly, spreading her legs and tugging her skirt up to just above her knees. That would be all it would take, for some of her lovers. More than enough invitation. And then the sun would be blotted out by a head and her skirt would be up around her waist and she would have good reason to spread her legs. Some wetness slides from her cunt at the thought.

He studiously avoids looking at her. He is studying the sky, or the fields, or his setter gamboling in the distance, or the horizon, or anything but her and her bare knees and the prodigious distance between them.

She grins up at him. “I like you, Benjamin.”

He is momentarily startled into looking at her, though his gaze flees a second later. “You don’t know me, miss.”

“I know that you are quiet and beautiful and you love to look at my legs.”

“I’m not beautiful,” he responds gruffly.

“But you grant that you are quiet?” she smiles.

He clears his throat. “I suppose.”

“And the other?”

“What other?”

“You know.” She reaches down with one hand and pulls her skirt up still higher, so the soft, creamy insides of her thighs meet the breeze.

He coughs slightly, or perhaps chokes. “Are you not afraid of being here all alone?”

She laughs merrily in surprise. “Afraid! Why should I be? And besides, I’m not alone. You’re here.”

His neck flushes red. “I mean, without your husband.”

Oh, so _that_ is his worry. She wiggles her bare legs contentedly. “I have no husband.”

“Your intended, then.”

“I have no intended, either.”

His eyebrows jump in surprise. “But... you are...” He trails off, confused.

She props herself up on her elbows, the better to look at him. “I am what?”

“You should be married.” He rubs a firm hand over his mouth.

She frowns. “Why do you think so?”

“What if a stranger were to... take advantage of you? Who would protect you?”

“I don’t understand.”

He flushes redder still, and his voice becomes progressively more strangled. “You’re lying alone in a field. A man could come and violate you.”

“Oh!” she exclaims brightly, and flops back down on the grass. “Don’t worry. I want you to violate me.”

This time it’s decidedly choking, not coughing, and she sits all the way up in alarm to make sure he’s all right. He waves her off hurriedly, turning away as he masters himself.

His dog comes running at the commotion, and finding that it can do nothing to help, stands at attention a few feet away and barks its alarm. Benjamin recovers, but rather than immediately turning back toward her, first gives vent to some seemingly strong feeling by vigorously petting his setter. When it seems to be convinced that he is all to rights, it runs off again and he looks at Rey.

She should look appealing, she thinks, with her skirt high enough that he can almost see her apex, and one light sleeve slipping off her shoulder in all the commotion. There’s probably grass in her hair, and perhaps he would prefer it if there weren’t, as he seems a fastidious sort of person, but one cannot lie in a field without getting grass in one’s hair, and one would be at pains to fuck in a field without getting grass somewhere or other, so it shouldn’t matter. She smiles hotly at him and spreads her legs wider. “Will you violate me now, Benjamin?”

Every knuckle stands out white against his tanned skin, so tightly clenched are his fists. “No.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “Do you have a wife, then?”

“What?” He starts in surprise. “No.”

“An intended?”

“No.”

“Good!” She shimmies happily in the grass. “Then we can fuck.”

“We cannot.” The sweat gleams on his brow and upper lip. “It is... I would not defile... The Church teaches...” He sets both hands in his lap, but not before she sees what is happening in his trousers. “We cannot.”

Rey looks down and starts undoing her bodice. Her fingers are lithe and practiced. “Why shouldn’t we, if we desire each other?”

The valley between her breasts is bare now. He gulps hard and forces his head away. “Why do you think I desire you?”

She smiles. “Oh, Benjamin.” Her buttons are undone to her navel, far enough to slip both arms out of her sleeves so her breasts are bare for him. Men like breasts very much, she’s found. But he still doesn’t look straight at her, so no one gets to see them but the sun. She sighs. “You don’t need to touch me. We can watch as we pleasure ourselves. That’s pleasant too.”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t— It is a sin.”

“How can it be?” She sucks two of her fingers into her mouth. “If we’re not touching? You must rub your cock when you are alone. How is this any different?”

Even as he shakes his head, his hands start to move in his lap. Small, jerky motions as if beyond his control. She smiles and leans back on one hand. She props her feet on the grass so her knees stick up and her skirt falls to her hips, and she angles herself toward him so he can see her cunt if he wants to. Her fingers find a delightful pool of wetness, and she hums her satisfaction as she smears it up to her pearl and then slides her fingers back down to dip inside.

His hands have started moving in earnest now, one cupped over the other as if in a fruitless attempt to shield its occupation. He grips himself over his trousers, and she is on the verge of asking if it wouldn’t feel nicer if he took it out, but it doesn’t much matter. She can see it some other time, and he seems bashful.

She enters herself with her slender fingers and gasps and smiles at the sensation. They aren’t as delicious as his cock would be, or the handle of her hairbrush, but they are pleasant still, especially when she crooks her fingers to rub her passage and starts drawing them nearly all the way out to plunge them back in as far as her hand will allow. She moans lazily and settles herself more comfortably against her supporting arm, and he is still not watching her but his hand is still kneading himself through his trousers, and his breath is harsh and labored, and it commingles with her gasps and cries and moans in the sunlight. His dog approaches them to investigate, and she laughs but he shoos it off with a grunt, and his hand pauses for only a moment, and her fingers never do, pushing her closer and closer to the brilliant starburst of her release, and her cries grow louder and more wanton and her feet scrabble at grass, and he turns his head toward her just at the end, so when the convulsions of ecstasy seize her, he’s watching, and he sees her straining nipples and her trembling thighs and the rose-pink lips that swallow her buried fingers, and his dark eyes make her peak higher, and she’s still shuddering when his hand suddenly spasms and he spends in his trousers with a strangled, surprised shout.

She sucks her fingers clean, then she leans back on both hands and smiles at him. “See? Didn’t you like it?”

He seems to be fighting some terrible, desperately valiant battle to keep his eyes fixed on her face without straying lower. “I liked it.” His voice cracks. “That doesn’t mean it’s not a sin.”

She scoffs. “Isn’t your God supposed to love everyone? Why doesn’t he want us to be happy?”

He draws in a trembling breath. He scarcely seems any more relaxed having found his release than he was before. “That’s not how it works.”

She rests her head against a bare shoulder and bites her lip. “Do you want to do it again?”

She can see the shudder that ripples through his body. “Yes. But I can’t.”

“I can wait until your cock is hard again.”

He shakes his head vehemently and tears his eyes away from her.

She sits up, pushes down her skirt, and slides her arms back into her sleeves reluctantly. “What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t—” He chuckles ruefully. “I didn’t know. That it was like that for women.”

She frowns, puzzled. “Like what?”

“The ending.” He bites his lips and turns away. “I didn’t know.”

“Oh, yes,” she answers matter-of-factly, buttoning up her dress. “We can climax much oftener than you can.”

His head whips back to her. He gawks. “You can do it again?”

“Of course,” she exclaims, and pulls her skirt up. “I can do it now. Do you want to see?”

“No!” He stands hurriedly. “I have to go. Do you...” He self-consciously wipes his palms on his trousers. “That is— may I walk you home?”

She shrugs. “If you like.” She slips her shoes on and stands. “It’s not far.”

He whistles for his dog, who comes bounding. He doesn’t speak as they walk through the field back to the road, but he keeps stealing quick glances at her.

Finally she asks, “Well?”

“What?”

“Why do you keep looking at me?”

He clears his throat and scuffs his boot on the dusty road. “I suppose it’s because... I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“How do you mean?”

“To do what we did and not be ashamed.”

She shrugs. “We hardly did anything, really.”

His lips loose a puff of disbelieving air. “You lifted your skirt and you— and you took off your dress, I mean, the top part... that is to say—”

“Had you never seen a woman’s breasts before, Benjamin?”

He colors and says nothing.

“Would you like to touch them next time?”

He laughs incredulously. “See, you _say_ things like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I let you touch them? Who else should give permission if not me? They’re part of _my_ body, you know.”

He picks up a stick lying by the road and flings it vigorously ahead. The dog tears after it. “Believe me, I know.”

She pivots quickly so she’s walking backwards a step ahead of him, so that she can watch his face. “Think of all the new things you can feel, Benjamin. I can teach you all of them.”

He glances at her swiftly. “Are you a witch?”

She sighs. “Why do men always think women they don’t understand are witches?”

“Are you?” he presses.

“No, Benjamin.” She turns back around so she’s walking forward. “Just a woman.”

He swallows heavily. “And you have done this before, with other men?”

“Of course.” She smiles. “I haven’t been lying around waiting for you.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Why do you bathe under a waterfall on a hot day, or dip your bread in honey?”

He frowns. “Those aren’t sins.”

She huffs, exasperated. “Some man decided to call things a sin and you believed him.”

“God said so.”

“How do you know? Have you met him?”

“No,” he says quietly, and seems to spend a few minutes lost in thought.

She looks over at him and smiles. “Poor sweet Benjamin. You don’t have to see me again, if you fear for your soul. I can always find someone else.”

“I want to see you again,” he answers quickly.

“So we can fuck?” she asks eagerly.

“I’ll bring you firewood. If that’s all right.”

She shrugs, disappointed. “Fine, if you want to. My cottage is just here,” she gestures.

“Oh.” He wrings his hands.

They come to a halt by her front garden. He can’t seem to bring himself to look straight at her for more than two seconds together.

“Hmm, it’s a pity,” she tsks.

“What is?”

“If I asked you to come sit against that tree and open your trousers so I could take my pleasure on you, you would say no.”

He is looking directly at her now, with eyes that know what lies under her dress. When he speaks, his voice is faraway and dazed. “If there’s anything worth damnation, it would be you.”

She sucks her lip and smiles the smile she gives all her lovers. Hot with invitation and promise. “Bring me wood tomorrow, Benjamin.”

“Yes, Rey.”

She stands in the lane for a while to watch him go. She can feel the old and new wetness between her legs, but she doesn’t sit under the tree and pull her skirt up once more, like she’d been planning.

She’ll wait for tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not even hazarding a guess at a chapter count because I know it’ll be wrong. (Almost) new year, new me. 😊


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes about the content of this fic: As in the first chapter, Rey will be trying to seduce Ben and he will object on religious grounds. She will not do anything that he does not consent to, and he will readily stop her if she proposes or tries to initiate anything that he does not want to do. So there will be a continual thread of attempted seduction/temptation, but not dubcon or noncon. Please do not read any further if the forcefulness of Rey’s behavior in the first chapter made you uncomfortable at all.
> 
> Also, please stop here if you prefer not to read someone abandoning aspects of their religious faith.

He arrives early, just after she’s finished feeding the chickens, when the sky is still a clear pearl threaded with streaks of pink. He doesn’t announce himself but rather stands outside the gate until she happens to walk around the corner of the cottage and sees him.

“Benjamin! What are you doing there?”

He shuffles his weight from one foot to the other. “You said I might bring you wood.”

“Well come in, then,” she smiles.

His big hand fumbles with the delicate latch of the gate, and she shivers as she imagines that hand given other delicate purposes. He carries the firewood in a burlap sack slung easily over one shoulder, despite its heft. She cannot see his muscles as clearly as she would like, though, for today he wears a grey jacket whose buttons strain with the effort of containing him—likely the most formal attire he owns, she reflects. She wipes her bare feet on the dew of the morning grass and her hands on her apron.

The woodpile lies under a lean-to at the rear of the cottage, and she points him to it. “I have bread in the oven. Come eat with me when it’s stacked.”

He nods silently, and she goes inside and finishes preparations for her breakfast. Now his, too. She’s just finished hanging up her apron and setting out dishes when he appears in the doorway. The top of his head is above the lintel of the door; he will need to duck to enter. But he doesn’t. The sight of her bed against the far wall seems to stop him in his tracks. She hasn’t straightened the sheets yet—a task she normally does after breakfast—so the quilt is rumpled at the foot of the bed and the white sheets curve in uneven waves around the place where her body was. He can’t look away from it, even when she clears her throat then giggles at his dumbstruck face.

She tucks the bread and honeypot in the crook of one arm and a blanket and the small jug of cream in the other. “Let’s eat outdoors.”

He wrenches his gaze away and gulps desperately as he nods, hastening away from the door to let her through. She leads him to a lush patch of grass by the edge of her garden, next to the blackberry bushes. She kneels to set down her burden, and when she unfolds the blanket, he is there, suddenly, crouching beside her to take the opposite corners and stretching out the blanket in tandem with her so that together they make a place for themselves inside the morning.

She waits for him to sit first, and he does, in the far corner so as to leave plenty of room for her. She plops down right in the center, facing him, inches from his legs. She thinks that he would object to her actually climbing into his lap to feed him, so she doesn’t, much as she wants to. She contents herself with tearing the loaf in half, heedless of the steam, and passing him his portion along with the honey and cream.

He doesn’t eat, he merely sits as rigidly as the day before, holding the hot bread. She takes the opportunity to kneel beside him and strip a branch of blackberries to accompany their meal. Her hip is close enough for his arm to touch, if he were to lean even an inch toward her. His breaths turn ragged and the tips of his ears turn red and she knows again that he desires her. Rey smiles at the blackberries, happy she resisted the urge to pleasure herself again the previous evening, because now her wetness flows prompt and fresh in anticipation of what his presence promises.

She takes her seat again, but this time it is even closer to him. She stretches out her ankles beside his hip and smiles at him. “Thank you for the wood, Benjamin.”

He grows even redder under her gaze. “I hope it pleases you.”

“Oh, it will.” She tears off a piece of bread and sops it in the cream that rests on the blanket between their bodies, letting her finger dip in the frothy white so that she may suck it clean. “It seems uncommonly hard and strong.”

He seems marginally surer of himself. “There is good wood to be had in this forest.”

She smirks. “I will be the judge of that.”

“Of course.” He looks down at his hands, where he has started to pick crumbs from the bread in his nervousness.

“I’m sure it will keep me warm. Perhaps sweaty, even.”

He looks up in alarm. “Oh no, I’m sure it won’t leave you too hot.”

She can’t help laughing merrily at this, and his brow furrows in confusion.

“Did I say something amiss?”

She grins at him and submerges her fingertip in the honey. “Don’t you know the other meaning of the word ‘wood,’ Benjamin?”

His frown deepens. “I didn’t know there was more than one.”

She holds her finger up, so the honey drips down, and she slowly extends her tongue to lick it. When her finger is clean, she looks back at him, notes his dark eyes and parted lips and quick, shallow breath, and says, “It means a hard cock.”

An involuntary spasm seems to seize him, and a shiver darts from his feet all the way to the back of his neck.

She rises up on her knees, lifting her dress as she does, so when she narrows the scant distance between them there is no dress to interfere with her knees’ progress. She smiles and murmurs, “Have you truly brought me wood, Benjamin?” and one of her hands comes to rest on his shoulder and the other on his chest, so when she sinks her haunches down to her heels, her hand ventures downward, to the hard, rippling plane of his midsection, then lower still, and her breath is on his ear, and his eyes have closed, and his member forms a log in his trousers—not quite so large as the others he brought her, but still the largest she’s ever had, and her hand reaches the band of his trousers, and she’s easing open the first button, and then the second, and with the third his cock will spring free, she is sure, so she lets her fingertips graze his wood as she reaches for that last, delicious button...

“Wait!” His eyes spring open, and his hand closes like iron around her wrist. “I must tell you something. Ask you something.”

“What is it?” she asks, and grinds her neglected cunt fruitlessly against nothing. She could take the hand he’s not holding off his shoulder and bury it under her skirt instead, but he probably wouldn’t be able to say what he wants to say while she’s frigging herself, and the sooner he gets it out, the sooner they can fuck.

“I have a good cabin,” he says in a rush. “Two rooms, and I can build more. There is already some land cleared, and I can clear more, for a garden. I can build a good, strong enclosure for chickens. And a coop. A big one.”

She looks at him quizzically. “I... congratulate you, Benjamin. It sounds as if you have a lovely home.”

“It’s deep in the forest,” he tells her, “but I think you would like it. The forest. The birds sing sweetly, and the sun comes in in yellow ribbons. And I am good with my hands. I can build a porch. And rocking chairs, too. Anything. I can build anything, as long as it’s made of wood.” His hand hasn’t released her wrist—if anything it’s tightened—and his other fist is crushing the bread.

She quirks her head, bemused. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Oh.” His face flushes a deep crimson. “I thought my meaning might be plain. I wish for— that is, I would ask you to—” He clears his throat gruffly. “Marry me. I am asking you to marry me.”

She doesn’t mean to laugh. And it’s not a laugh, entirely, the _ha_ that escapes her lungs. She stares. “Why?”

He looks down at her wrist in awe, as if he’s only just discovered he’s holding it. It is her wrist he tells this next, not her: “I would wish to have you for a wife.”

“Benjamin,” she chuckles breathlessly, but senseless tears sting the corners of her eyes. “Did you truly ask me to marry you so that you can put your cock inside me?”

“Yes. No, I mean,” he corrects hurriedly and looks up at her. “You know that I—” he glances down, ruddy-faced, “desire you. But I want a wife. I want you, that is. I want you for my wife. And I would be a good husband to you, Rey,” he gazes at her beseechingly. “I am not so rich as some of the men in town, but you would not want for anything. I would make you happy. I think. I would try very hard.”

It is probably as many words put together as he’s said to anyone in years, and besides, there’s a soft, tender longing in his eyes that makes her look away to shake her head, huffing in frustration, and to blink back tears. “This is foolish. I will never marry. And besides, we met not even a day ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I knew it was too soon, but then you...” He swallows hard. “I forgot. I can court you, if you’ll let me.”

“Benjamin,” she says, shaking her head with a reproving smile, “you are impossible.”

He smiles too, and she thinks perhaps it’s the first time she’s seen him truly smile. Yes, it must be the first time, because she would have remembered _this._ The way his eyes light and his stern, weathered face softens into a boyish brightness.

She groans playfully and squirms. “Will you not fuck me now? It would be a most effective form of courtship, I think.”

“You have told me that you will not marry.”

“And you have told me that you will not fuck me unless we are married.”

The smile is gone from his face now, replaced by a hot intensity that she both craves and fears. “It seems we are at an impasse.”

“Unless...” Her fingers toy with the top button of her dress. His hand tenses on her wrist. She pops the button free. “Unless we come to an agreement. You attempt to court me, and I attempt to persuade you to fuck me.”

He shifts, and she can see a sheen of sweat on his brow. She opens another button. “It is a sin,” he says, though his eyes on the inner curves of her breasts seem less than convinced of his words.

“I will tell you a secret,” she smiles, unfastening another button. A stifled groan escapes his mouth. “Are you ready?”

He nods dazedly, spellbound by her words. Or perhaps her tits.

“There is no such thing as sin. There’s only what does harm to others, and what does not. And using our bodies for our pleasure, Benjamin?” She looses another button. “There is no harm in that.” She pulls up her skirt to her hips. “You’ll see.”

“You—” he swallows hard. “You are cheating.” She smirks and spreads her legs, throwing one foot over his knees, not touching him, but resting on the blanket’s edge beyond.

“Do we have an agreement, then?” She clenches her cunt, forcing out a new trickle of wetness, and he sees. She knows he sees, because he gulps and shifts his hips, and it was not necessary for the third button of his trousers to be undone, after all.

Because his cock springs free.

And he does not try to hide it.

Rey gasps. It is nearly as thick around as her wrist, gnarled with veins and topped with a leaking red mushroom-head whose smooth, hot shine her tongue yearns to map. She trembles and thinks perhaps she will die if she doesn’t take this cock.

She looks up at his face. “Please, Benjamin. You have never felt between a woman’s legs, have you? You can perhaps imagine how hot it is, and how tight—tighter than your own fist can ever be—and so wet, Benjamin, _so_ wet, because our bodies know what you would deny: that I was made to have you inside me. It’s smoothing the way. See?” She draws a finger through her soaked folds and holds it up for his inspection. “I can’t tell you what it’s like, not in words, you have to feel it for yourself, Benjamin, _please.”_

His hips move in small, unconscious circles, and his cock strains upward with such fervor as if he would burst out of his skin. No part of them is touching.

“Marry me,” he pleads. “I’ll carry you through the cabin door and lay you on my bed— _our_ bed—and then I’ll fuck you, sweet, as long and as often as you can bear.”

“Now,” she begs breathlessly. “Fuck me now.”

“Marry me. Rey. Be my wife.”

He reaches out for her just as she lurches toward him, and she ends straddling his lap, with her skirt trailing over his legs and his cock right _there_ and she rubs her breasts wantonly against his chest and he moans, but when she reaches between them to guide him inside, his hand is there first, fisting his cock, and he grunts stubbornly when she whines, so her hand goes to her body instead, frantically rubbing, and she finds that she can raise herself high enough to trap her hand between his chest and her bud, and that’s how she bears down, humping herself into him while he fucks his hand beneath, under the tent of her skirt. _“Ben,”_ she gasps, but her lungs clutch at air before she can complete the word, and his eyes are level with hers this way, locked on her face, but no matter how much she rubs her erect nipples against his front, or moans or mewls, or ruts against him, or pants his name—or at least this three-letters’ name her body has made for him—he will not touch her. He jerks himself relentlessly and he watches her, but he will do nothing more. So she doubles her efforts and forces her pelvis against her hand and him with heightened vigor, and he is as solid as if he had been made of wood: not just his cock, but _him,_ this sturdy, solid mass of him, that can withstand all of her appetite and her passion and never falter. She cries her completion to the heavens, but there’s no one to hear it except him, so his ears soak it up as his trousers absorb the gush of wetness her fingers hook inside and draw out, and her muscles fail at his critical moment, so when she falls back to sit on his legs, he shoots his spend into the open air and not up at her.

They are both dazed for a moment, looking down at what they did together. Not _together,_ but close. Almost as close as two bodies can be and not be joined.

“Benjamin,” she breathes, her chest heaving. “How can this be a sin?”

He rebuttons his trousers with shaking hands, then looks at her where she sits on his legs. “May I call on you tomorrow?”

She chuckles breathlessly as she sets to fastening her dress. “To court me?”

“Yes.”

“On two conditions.” She eyes him seriously.

“What are they?”

“You may not feel guilty for the things we did this morning.”

He nods solemnly. “I’ll try. What’s the second?”

She smiles and looks down at the bread, crumbled to a mess of brown morsels by his grip. “When I give you food, you eat it.”

He looks down ruefully. “I’m sorry for the waste.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She reaches out her hand to him, to do what she doesn’t know, and it hangs suspended in air until his hand closes carefully around it and brings it slowly to his mouth. His eyes never leave hers, even when his lips caress her knuckles in a brief, gallant, chaste kiss.

“Don’t be sorry,” she repeats in a pleading whisper.

“Marry me,” he begs softly, with a small, crooked smile.

Her lips quirk briefly. “Perhaps tomorrow. Fuck me.”

“Perhaps tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have any particular update schedule in mind for this fic and have several other WIPs at the moment, but feel free to check my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/CeliaAnd2) for periodic updates! 💛


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